THE WANDERER RETURNS
The hour was growing late, and the family were dining in the great hall.
Rupert Ravenspur sat at the head of the table, with Gordon's wife
opposite him. The lovers sat smiling and happy side by side. Across the
table Marion beamed gently upon the company. Nothing ever seemed to
eclipse her quiet gaiety; she was the life and soul of the party. There
was something angelic about the girl as she sat there clad in soft
diaphanous white.
Lamps gleamed on the fair damask, on the feathery daintiness of flowers,
and on the lush purple and gold and russet of grapes and peaches. From
the walls long lines of bygone Ravenspurs looked down--fair women in
hoops and farthingale, men in armor. There was a flash of color from the
painted roof.
Presently the soft-footed servants would quit the castle for the night,
for under the new order of things nobody slept in the castle excepting
the family. Also, it was the solemn duty of each servitor to taste every
dish as it came to table. A strange precaution, but necessary in the
circumstances.
For the moment the haunting terror was forgotten. Wines red and white
gleamed and sparkled in crystal glasses. Rupert Ravenspur's worn, white
face relaxed. They were a doomed race and they knew it; yet laughter was
there, a little saddened, but eyes brightened as they looked from one to
another.
By and by the servants began to withdraw. The cloth was drawn in the
old-fashioned way, a long row of decanters stood before the head of the
house and was reflected in the shining, brown pool of mahogany. Big log
fires danced and glowed from the deep ingle nooks; from outside came the
sense of the silence.
An aged butler stood before Ravenspur with a key on a salver.
"I fancy that is all, sir," he said.
Ravenspur rose and made his way along the corridor to the outer doorway.
Here he counted the whole of the domestic staff, carefully passed the
drawbridge and then the portcullis was raised. Ravenspur Castle and its
inhabitants were cut off from the outer world. Nobody could molest them
till morning.
And yet the curl of a bitter smile was on Ravenspur's face as he
returned to the dining-hall. Even in the face of these precautions two
of the garrison had gone down before the unseen hand of the assassin.
There was some comfort in the reflection that the outer world was barred
off, but it was futile, childish, in vain.
The young people, with Mrs. Charles, had risen from the table and had
gathered on the pile of skins and cushions in one of the ingle nooks.
Gordon Ravenspur was sipping his claret and holding a cigar with a hand
that trembled.
Hardy man as he was, the shadow lay upon him also; indeed, it lay upon
them all. If the black death failed to strike, then madness would come
creeping in its track. Thus it was that evening generally found the
family all together. There was something soothing in the presence of
numbers.
They were talking quietly, almost in whispers. Occasionally a laugh
would break from Vera, only to be suppressed with a smile of apology.
Ravenspur looked fondly into the blue eyes of the dainty little beauty
whom they all loved so dearly.
"I hope I didn't offend you, grandfather," she said.
In that big hall voices sounded strained and loud. Ravenspur smiled.
"Nothing you could do would offend me," he said. "It may be possible
that a kindly Providence will permit me to hear the old roof ringing
with laughter again. It may be, perhaps, that that is reserved for
strangers when we are all gone."
"Only seven left," Gordon murmured.
"Eight, father," Vera suggested. She looked up from the lounge on the
floor with the flicker of the wood fire in her violet eyes. "Do you know
I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that Uncle Ralph came home
again. He had a great black bundle in his arms, and when the bundle
burst open it filled the hall with a gleaming light, and in the center
of that light was the clue to the mystery."
Ravenspur's face clouded. Nobody but Vera would have dared to allude to
his son Ralph in his presence.
For over Ralph Ravenspur hung the shadow of disgrace--a disgrace he had
tried to shift on to the shoulders of his dead brother Charles, Marion's
father. Of that dark business none knew the truth but the head of the
family. For twenty years he had never mentioned his erring son's name.
"It is to be hoped that Ralph is dead," he said harshly.
A somber light gleamed in his eyes. Vera glanced at him half timidly.
But she knew how deeply her grandfather loved her, and this gave her
courage to proceed. "I don't like to hear you talk like that," she said.
"It is no time to be harsh or hard on anybody. I don't know what he did,
but I have always been sorry for Uncle Ralph. And something tells me he
is coming home again. Grandfather, you would not turn him away?"
"If he were ill, if he were dying, if he suffered from some grave
physical affliction, perhaps not. Otherwise----"
Ravenspur ceased to talk. The brooding look was still in his eyes; his
white head was bent low on his breast.
Marion's white fingers touched his hand caressingly. The deepest bond
of sympathy existed between these two. And at the smile in Marion's eye
Ravenspur's face cleared.
"You would do all that is good and kind," Marion said. "You cannot
deceive me: oh, I know you too well for that. And if Uncle Ralph came
now!"
Marion paused, and the whole group looked one to the other with startled
eyes. With nerves strung tightly like theirs, the slightest deviation
from the established order of things was followed by a feeling of dread
and alarm. And now, on the heavy silence of the night, the great bell
gave clamorous and brazen tongue.
Ravenspur started to his feet.
"Strange that anyone should come at this time of night," he said. "No,
Gordon, I will go. There can be no danger, for this is tangible."
He passed along the halls and passages till he came to the outer oak. He
let down the portcullis.
"Come into the light," he cried, "and let me see who you are."
A halting, shuffling step advanced, and presently the gleam of the hall
lantern shone down upon the face of a man whose features were strangely
seamed and scarred. It seemed as if the whole of his visage had been
scored and carved in criss-cross lines until not one inch of
uncontaminated flesh remained.
His eyes were closed; he came forward with fumbling, outstretched hands
as if searching for some familiar object. The features were
expressionless, but this might have been the result of those cruel
scars. But the whole aspect of the man spoke of dogged, almost pathetic,
determination.
"You look strange and yet familiar to me," said Ravenspur. "Who are you
and whence do you come?"
"I know you," the stranger replied in a strangled whisper. "I could
recognize your voice anywhere. You are my father."
"And you are Ralph, Ralph, come back again!"
There was horror, indignation, surprise in the cry. The words rang loud
and clear, so loud and clear that they reached the dining-hall and
brought the rest of the party hurrying out into the hall.
Vera came forward with swift, elastic stride. With a glance of
shuddering pity at the scarred face she laid a hand on Ravenspur's arm.
"My dream," she whispered. "It may be the hand of God. Oh, let him
stay!"
"There is no place here for Ralph Ravenspur," the old man cried.
The outcast still fumbled his way forward. A sudden light of
intelligence flashed over Gordon as he looked curiously at his brother.
"I think, sir," he said, "that my brother is suffering from some great
affliction. Ralph, what is it? Why do you feel for things in that way?"
"I must," the wanderer replied. "I know every inch of the castle. I
could find my way in the darkest night over every nook and corner.
Father, I have come back to you. I was only to come back to you if I
were in sore need or if I was deeply afflicted. Look at me! Does my face
tell you nothing?"
"Your face is--is dreadful. And, as for your eyes, I cannot see them."
"You cannot see them," Ralph said in that dreadful, thrilling, strangled
whisper, "because I have no sight; because I am blind."
Without a word Ravenspur caught his unhappy son by the hand and led him
to the dining-hall, the family following in awed silence.